Lucifer's Crown (46 page)

"Elizabeth I's alchemist, John Dee,” said Thomas, “supposedly found a book written by St. Dunstan in the ruins of the Abbey. And in his day they were ruins, not this manicured park."

"A book telling how to turn base metal to gold,” Maggie added, “using the philosopher's stone. In some stories that's the stone that broke off Lucifer's crown when he fell from heaven."

"I thought that was the Holy Grail,” said Rose.

"Both are symbols of what Lucifer lost when he rebelled—wholeness."

"So did Dee turn metal into gold?” Sean asked.

"He died poor in material wealth,” said Thomas.

"Go figure.” Sean focused his camcorder and moved off toward the signpost marking the site of Arthur's medieval shrine.

"Jivan!” Thomas waved.

Inspector Gupta came striding toward them. “I hear you're going up to London tomorrow, Maggie."

"Yes, it's time for us to rejoin the other groups. Mick's coming with us.” Not, she thought with a glance at his arm wrapped securely around Rose's shoulders, that she'd even try to unglue the young couple. They'd have to separate soon enough.

"Thomas? You usually spend Christmas in London."

"I'll be helping out at the homeless shelter as usual."

In his first life, he'd washed the feet of the beggars gathered at his door. Ostentatious humility? Maggie met Thomas's wry glance with a smile.

"We've turned up the couple who carried away the Cup on Wednesday,” Gupta reported. “They handed it over to Fitzroy and Ellen Sparrow, no surprise there. We'll charge them with aiding a theft."

"What's their version?” Maggie asked wearily.

"God told them to destroy objects of superstition and heresy, the Somerset Constabulary is conspiring to restrain their free expression of religion, and their solicitor will be phoning. He'll need to wait in the queue, we've already three suits pending."

"I see.” Rose rolled her eyes. “Freedom of religion for themselves but not for anybody else."

"Swenholt released both the Soulises,” Jivan went on. “They'll also have to answer charges of aiding a theft. But just now..."

"...they're free to make more trouble,” concluded Mick.

"Mountjoy was seen in Hexham on the Wednesday. If Swenholt can lay him by the heels he can charge him with assaulting Armstrong as well as theft."

"And my dad?” asked Mick. “And Vivian?"

Gupta looked around the grounds of the Abbey as though seeking inspiration. A cloud passed over the sun and over his face as well. “The inquiry into Vivian Morgan's death will run on for a time, I expect, and be shelved, and at the end of the day be filed under unsolved cases. I'm every bit as certain as you are that Fitzroy murdered her. But the only witness was your father, Mick. If it's any consolation, now that Mountjoy's out of the picture, no one's likely to conclude that Calum killed Vivian himself and tried to shop Fitzroy."

Mick looked down at his feet, lips taut. Rose wrapped her arm around his waist.

The sun shone out again, making Gupta's eyes into gleaming jet—if jet, Maggie thought, could ever be intelligent. “However, Swenholt tells me that when Stanley Felton heard Reg Soulis had been released from custody, he turned Queen's evidence. He admits to helping Soulis kidnap Calum from the phone box in Carlisle and drive him to Housesteads, where they met Fitzroy. But when Fitzroy and Soulis told Felton to wait in the car park whilst they went up to the ruins with Calum, he followed, thinking they were after cutting him out of some moneymaking plot. As they'd done before."

"He saw what happened?” prompted Mick.

"He overheard a violent argument, Fitzroy tearing strips off Calum. Then he heard a blow, and a body falling. And Fitzroy, very cold and tight, ticking Soulis off for acting without orders but for doing what needed doing even so. Now Swenholt's people are reassessing the crime scene evidence."

"Soulis killed my dad,” said Mick, a catch in his voice, whether of anger or sorrow Maggie couldn't tell.

"We'll charge him as soon as we find him,” Gupta said. “But Fitzroy himself—well, Thomas, you said that he's beyond human justice."

Mick's face was pale but his chin was high. “Oh, we'll bring him to justice, right enough. On Hogmanay. New Year's Eve."

God help us
, Maggie added to herself.

"I'll be there,” Gupta went on. “I don't suppose I'll be providing much more than moral support, but..."

Thomas smiled. “Why, Jivan. How very good of you. Moral support is just what we'll be needing."

"You can count on me, too,” said Anna with a firm nod.

Sean came cruising back again, taped the entire group standing against the walls of the chapel, and asked, “Inspector, have you heard anything about Ellen?"

"No, lad, we haven't."

"Anna and I talked to Alf and made a case for her, you know. It wasn't her fault Bess died, and Alf's pissed off at Fitzroy more than he is at her. He says he'll take her back in."

"If we find her,” Gupta said, “we'll tell her."

"She'll need psychiatric help,” said Rose.

Maggie added, “Not to mention exorcism."

"No kidding.” Sean moved on, the camcorder whirring.

"Was talking to Alf your idea or Sean's?” Maggie asked Anna.

"His,” Anna answered. “He wants to see her again before we go back home. As much to tell her ‘I told you so’ about Robin, I think, but even so, there's hope for him yet. If only there's hope for her."

Thomas stated, “There's hope."

"Hey,” Sean called from the Lady Chapel. “I need some bodies in this shot."

"Bad choice of words,” Rose said, but still she tugged at Mick's hand. His sober face cracked into a thin smile and they walked away with Anna.

It isn't hard
, Maggie told herself,
to figure out why Ellen had fallen for Robin
. Because she was weak and he appeared strong.

Gupta tilted his head to the side. “Thomas, I'm thinking you're one of the old monks who can remember his past life. No,” he said as Thomas started to speak, “let my imagination enjoy itself. The next time we play chess, we can discuss it. Merry Christmas, Thomas, Maggie."

"The blessings of the season upon you,” Thomas told him.

"Thank you,” added Maggie, and Gupta walked off toward the gate.

Thomas raised his face to watch a dove land on the shattered top of the tower, a white ideogram on the gray stone. “St. Columba. Mary Magdalene. The brotherhood of the Grail. The Holy Spirit.” He looked back down at Maggie. “Sorry. I find myself continually looking out signs and portents."

Maggie looked for her own signs and portents in his face—the face of a man who didn't just appear strong, but who was. “What are you seeing? The Old Church? The medieval Abbey? The ruins Dee saw?"

"The ruins,” he replied. “Do you remember the sixteenth-century poem written about the destruction of another great Marian shrine, Walsingham? ‘Bitter, bitter, O, to behold the grass to grow where the walls of Walsingham so stately did show. Walsingham, O, farewell.’”

The dove took wing again, spiraling above the broken walls. “Walsingham's been renewed,” said Maggie. “Catholic and Anglican shrines share the site. It's as big a deal for pilgrims as it was in the Middle Ages."

"Time brings renewal and reawakening, doesn't it? If we can preserve the power of the Grail so that there will be time to forgive and be forgiven...” His voice broke. “Magdalena, I shall miss you dreadfully."

She bit her lip, hard, and touched his face, memorizing the high places of his cheekbones, the wells of his eyes, the landscape of his brow and mouth and jaw. His gestures, the timbre of his voice, every word he'd ever uttered to her and every touch he'd ever bestowed on her. His soul, that old soul on whom time had worked its will as it had on the trees and stones of the ancient shrine itself.

Glastonbury, O farewell
.

Mick wrapped the elastic round his tail of hair and buttoned the top button of his shirt.
Ow
. Quickly he unbuttoned it. But despite the bruises he felt himself again. The new himself, not the himself he'd been two months ago, not a bit of it.

Rose sat on the bed holding his chanter to her lips. She blew. It squawked. She looked up with a laugh. Yesterday he'd seen tears in her eyes. Now she was laughing. That was amazing grace, right enough. How sweet both the word and the woman.

Putting the chanter aside, he scooped her back onto the bed. She wrapped his body with hers and said with a wicked grin, “Open thou my lips, and my mouth shall show forth thy praise."

He opened her lips. Her mouth tasted of honey.
This is now
, he thought. Her willowy body flexed to his touch and her scent filled his head, making him giddy.
This is now
. Her bones were fine and strong beneath her skin, and her skin smooth beneath her jumper, straining toward his hands and mouth—in a moment both their jumpers would be gone and they could lie skin to skin—and their jeans, with their buttons and zips, no trouble at all...

"Oh, Mick,” she said in his ear, a warm breath trembling with delight. And with caution.

He blinked into Rose's bright blue eyes.

"Mick,” she said again, a wee bit steadier. “Not like this."

He wrenched himself away, sat up on the edge of the bed, and re-seated his jeans. The wallpaper seemed to pulse in time with his heart. The
sgian dubh
made a hard exclamation point against his ribs. “I'm thinking we have a choice. We can be getting on with it. Or we can be proper guardians of the Grail and possess ourselves in patience, as my Dad used to say."

"I like the idea of possessing myself. You know, honor and all that.” Rose sat up and re-seated her bra. “Have you ever gotten on with it?"

"Oh aye. It didna mean overmuch. I was a gowk to settle for cheap."

"Robin said physical virginity was cheap. But I won't let mine be cheap. I won't let it be casual. You know, okay, so much for that, what do you want to do now? Watch a video?"

Had she told him she was a virgin? He wasn't surprised.

"I don't want to fumble around in some corner and then pretend nothing happened. I want to do it with knowledge and intention and consent. With affection aforethought. I want to shout out, ‘I love this man. I worship him with my body because there's no shame in the flesh.’ Of course,” she added, “I do want to do it with you."

He smiled, tentatively. “Is it love, then?"

"Feels like it from here."

"And from here.” Mick raised her hands to his lips. “I dinna suppose we're gey important with Armageddon and all. But then, if it is Armageddon, would you not hate to miss out worshipping the flesh?"

"Oh, ye of little faith,” she said with a grin. “We're going to prevent Armageddon, aren't we? Because we're just what's important. And because we possess ourselves like proper guardians of the Grail."

Mick grinned back. She was a canny one. She knew no matter how complex the labyrinth he'd been treading, no matter how long and dark its path, he'd come at last to the center. Whatever tasks lay along the path out—the university, the business, a trial—he would have her heart and soul, body and spirit, with him. “Well then, we should be asking Thomas to marry us."

Her eyes glowed. “Let's ask him for a nuptial blessing when we're at Canterbury. Then in God's eyes we'll be engaged, and sex will be okay."

"Oh no, lass. It'll be grand."

Footsteps thundered up the stairs and blows hammered on the door. “Hey!” shouted Sean. “Do we have to throw a bucket of water on you two? Rose, you came up here to get Mick to play for us!"

Rose laughed. “Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

Mick opened the door. Sean looked past him, saw a fully-clothed Rose standing innocently by the basin, and shrugged.

Mick clapped Sean on the shoulder. “I'll be down in a tic, Sunshine.” And to Rose, “You go on, lass, blowing in the pipes is no treat for the ear."

"We'll be in the courtyard,” said Sean. “Thomas says there's a reason they're called the Great War Pipes."

"The yard it is, then."

Blowing him a kiss, Rose walked away. Mick set about inflating and tuning, until the bass note of the drones sounded loud and clear and the bag was tight, straining beneath his arm. If fondling the pipes wasn't as fine as fondling Rose, well, they had their glamour.

Down the stairs he went, and out into the lamp-lit yard. They were all waiting, Alf, Thomas and Maggie, Sean and Anna, Rose. Even Dunstan, who was sitting inside the lounge window like a deity enthroned.

Rose smiled and Mick thought,
This is forever
. He cut loose with “Scotland the Brave.” The skirl of the pipes filled the courtyard with sound and glory. Alf covered his ears. Everyone else cheered.

So then, the music was enough to wake the dead. Let it. Let Robin Fitzroy know this was the wappenshaw, the muster of the warriors. Let him know they were ready to take him on, and win.

Ellen sat down next to a niche holding a statue of a woman and a baby. Three candles burned in front of it. Superstitious rubbish, those images.

Mary didn't die. It was Jesus who died. Maybe he scared his mum as well.
I never meant it. I never.

Ellen didn't know where in London's maze of streets she'd found the church that housed this shelter. She'd walked since daybreak, when the cheap hotel turfed her out, Christmas Day or not. The gits driving by in their posh cars didn't so much as see her, save for the pillock who ran through a puddle, splashed her, and laughed. That's what Christmas meant, brass for the toffs, and the likes of her left out in the cold and the rain.

Even if Temple Manor wasn't half Alf's rubbish, Christmas went down a treat there, lights shining in the glass, roasted goose, pudding, crackers and funny hats. Mum only ever wanted what was best ... Mum was dead. Alf hated her. Anna and the others, they wouldn't be good to her ever again. And Sean—she missed Sean.

The good smells that had lured Ellen in from the street now made her feel sick. Even in the warm room she was perishing cold. Cold as bonking Robin. But Wednesday he'd taken no for an answer. Snarling about Canterbury, he'd shoved a few notes at her and left her at St. Pancras station. He never saw her pinch the knife, did he? Now it was a rigid outline in her pocket. Now it was hers.